The Magpie's Mouse
by The Bookshop
Summary: During the Second Wizarding War, the death of a disgraced witch has gone by unnoticed. A startling discovery leads to the Golden Trio unravelling the riddles of her obscure life. As they delve deeper into the never-ending mystery, they soon learn some secrets run deeper than others.
1. Prologue

**Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters, settings, etc. are the property of their respective owners (J. K. Rowling). The original characters and plot are the property of the author of this story.**

* * *

Dusk was hazy and cloudless; a cool breeze settled over the Welsh rolling hills, travelling through the rustling grass. The faint crescent moon watched over an outlying cottage on a knoll. A lone magpie rested on the thatched roof and cawed out loud.

Inside the cottage, the fireplace crackled quietly; the gaily coloured flames glowed in the dim room. A single candle illuminated the wooden desk, where a woman was hunched over, scribbling into the parchment. She was absorbed in her activity, only stopping every few moments to tuck her startling white hair behind her ears or to dip her feather quill into the inkpot. Often, she would stop writing sharply as if deliberating on what to write next.

The woman's head perked up, hearing rustling behind her. A field mouse perched precariously on her bedpost froze as melancholic grey eyes met the mouse's inquisitive dark ones. The woman smiled wistfully, caught up in her thoughts. The mouse seized the opportunity and scurried away.

Her wrinkled hands picked up the letter and read it slowly and carefully. With a quill, she crossed out many words and replaced them as she checked it.

When she reached the end of the parchment, the woman paused, her quill lingering above. Her small lips thinned. Her eyes focused in determination; she signed it off with her name.

Her trembling lips whispered, 'This is my true name; it cannot be changed.'

The woman's frail body struggled to push herself up from the chair, her chest rattling. Clutching the letter, she shuffled to the fireplace. She muttered some words and threw the letter in the now roaring fire. The unscathed letter twisted and turned in the flames before it gently floated upwards. As it reached the chimney opening, there was an audible pop and the letter was gone.

With an agitated look up to the ceiling, she clasped her hands together, speaking softly: 'Duw achub fi nawr. _God save me now._'

* * *

In the cottage, the woman lay in her bed, her white hair splayed across her pillow, gleaming like a unicorn's mane. Her face was serene as if she was freed from the weight of the earthly shackles.

A small mouse stood nearby, sniffing the air – it bowed down its head as if showing its solitary respect. Its dark eyes looked back only once at the figure before it vanished into the darkness.

The sky was now ink-black, the stars were dimmed by the haze of greenish smoke, etched against the black sky like a new constellation. It swirled to form a colossal skull, comprised of what looked like emerald stars, with a serpent protruding from its mouth like a tongue.


	2. One

'Harry, look…'

Squashed together on the small settee with Hermione, Harry yawned as he stretched his arms after being prodded awake from his semi-conscious nap. Hermione's source of attention was at the Quibbler; the front page was collaged with many photos of the now-deceased witches and wizards. A sense of sadness started to creep up upon him, there were far too many deaths, thought Harry, and the worse thing was that some of these people looked like they had their whole lives ahead of them, somewhere around Lee Jordan's age.

He asked with a deep frown, 'What exactly am I supposed to be looking for?'

After hearing a sigh of resignation, Harry's eyes followed Hermione's finger to a small photo on the bottom right. The quality of the black-and-white photo made Harry struggle to see it clearly; it was a middle-aged woman with a shock of short curly hair, springing up just above her shoulder. He looked at the faded face of the woman, who stared at him, blinking pensively. He did not know who she was.

Hermione pointed at the date in the corner of the photo,_ '1961'_. She thought aloud, 'She probably would have been in her late sixties now, I believe.'

Hermione flicked the newspaper a few pages forward, and in the corner at the top of the page – amidst other surrounding articles – the tiny title emblazoned was:

_"YOU-KNOW-WHO SUPPORTER FOUND DEAD"_

Harry took the newspaper from her hands; 'This woman supported Vol-,' but after a quick glare from Hermione, he hastily corrected himself, 'You-Know-Who?'

Hermione's lips were pursed, her eyebrows knitted together, 'Yes, it seems like it. If you read the rather brief article, it is confusing as she was- just read it, Harry.'

_Sylvia Lawrence, a muggle-born yet a fierce supporter of You-Know-Who, was found deceased last night. Her body was discovered in her cottage, situated a few miles from Aldcaer (a wizarding village anglicised as Aldfort), near Rhydcymerau._

_Lawrence disappeared from the Wizarding Society in 1979 after accusations of being associated as a Death Eater and was never heard from again. There is limited knowledge of Lawrence's past and work, and there are no existing records to show who Lawrence was. Anonymous witnesses say that they saw the Dark Mark in the sky when Lawrence would have died, which leads us to the belief that this is the actions of the Dark Lord, reinforced by the fact an Unforgivable Curse was used – the Killing Curse. _

_Her death has now concluded the end of her two-decade disappearance. No family of hers came to claim her and Lawrence was given a simple burial. _

Harry picked out the lint from his jumper, feeling that something was very wrong – he felt very unsettled.

''Mione, do you believe this? I… I'm not sure if I can.'

She tugged on her hair, 'I agree. A muggle-born supporting him does sound a bit far-fetched. I mean, for Merlin's sake, no one even knows her!'

* * *

Harry had not realised how fast the seasons changed from warm summer to cool autumn. Despite it being early Saturday morning, the sun had not come out yet. Their boots crunched on the crinkled leaves; their hands stuck far down in their pockets.

It was the day after reading the strange article about Sylvia Lawrence, and Harry had a plan which Hermione reluctantly agreed to go along with.

Harry shifted uncomfortably; his hands felt heavy and too big for his body. He was not himself, neither was Hermione since they both had taken a polyjuice potion to avoid getting caught. Harry looked around at the unfamiliar surroundings where they had apparated to - the outskirts of the small village Rhydcymerau.

This probably had to be one of the most stupidest and dangerous plan to be ever conceived, thought Harry. If only Ron was here, he would have known how to ease the tension, but Ron had already fled from the Horcrux-hunt merely two weeks ago. Harry sighed bitterly.

To any other ordinary civilians, whilst peeking through closed curtains, they would have encountered an odd sight of a couple walking on the desolate road. It was dangerous times to be about, with all the unexplained 'accidents' and deaths. There was nothing remarkable about them except, the fact that the broad-shouldered man was over towered by the lofty, slim woman with salt-and-pepper hair. The unassuming couple both stopped for a moment, to take a drink out of their flasks, before carrying on walking. As soon as the couple had disappeared, the curtains would close.

* * *

It was noon, the sky was a brilliant shade of blue, yet a cold chill permeated the air. Aldfort was a small village, isolated from civilisation. Harry and Hermione had walked for miles on a narrow trail through a dense forest of alder trees; Hermione reckoned the village's name must have been derived from that, ('Ald must be short for Alder, which is…'), but Harry did not hear the rest of the sentence as he lost his attention soon after.

Aldfort was deserted, from what Harry had established: in the small clearing, the only evidence of human life ever been there was a cluster of few cobble cottages. A bird chirruped nearby, bringing Harry out of his daze – the only cottage that seemed to dwell life, was the second one down, with sparse smoke trailing from the chimney. Hermione – who seemed to have thought the same thing as Harry – went up and softly knocked on the door.

Harry heard movement inside; a silhouette of a woman appeared at the semi-opaque net curtain and the door opened to reveal a young woman. She looked no older than twenty-years-old, for she was holding a baby in her arms and a toddler clung onto her leg, eyes wide at Harry and Hermione.

With a hushed voice, the woman said 'Dewch, dewch i mewn!'

She gestured them to enter, her eyes were alert, looking behind Harry and Hermione as if something dangerous were following them. Although he could not speak any Welsh, he understood what she meant.

The woman led them into the living room; the size of the cottage was small – smaller than Dudley Dursley's two bedrooms combined. Harry watched the toddler pick up her tattered ragdoll, she ran behind the sofa, peeking around occasionally. The woman had already left the room, cooing at her baby in her arms. She returned shortly with three floating cups of tea trailing behind her.

'You do not speak Welsh?' she asked in a thick accent.

'No sorry.' Hermione smiled regrettably.

'Ah iawn, my name is Alys,' she pointed at the babbling toddler, 'Catrin,' and then out the door towards her baby 'Alun.'

Harry spoke, 'Uh, my name is Vernon, and this is Petunia.'

Alys smiled thinly, before taking Catrina out of the room, whispering something to her in Welsh. Hermione and Harry drank from their tea politely; when Alys returned, she asked kindly:

'So Vernon, what are you both doing here?'

There was a second of silence, until Harry jolted, realising that he was in fact, "Vernon". 'Well,' Harry paused, glancing at Hermione, 'It's hard times, with, you know, killings everywhere. Herm-Petunia, here, is a muggle-born so we've been on the run.'

It was partially true, Harry thought. Alys seemed to have fallen for it as she sympathised, 'Ah bless!'

Harry nodded before continuing, 'Not only that, uh, we found out something and, um, I-I wanted to know more about this. This person, I mean.'

'Do you know her?' asked Hermione, showing her the cutting from the newspaper, including the photograph of Sylvia.

Shock crossed Alys' face, before she looked away suddenly, tears welling up. She nodded.

'People say she's a Death Eater. Is this true?' Hermione asked.

The temperature in the room dropped, Alys' body tensed, 'How dare you. How dare you say that!' She exhaled heavily, 'That night, was the most frightening night, that terrible mark in the sky. She should not have died.'

Alys looked up to the ceiling as if she were contemplating what to say. 'Yes, she was quiet – maybe a bit odd… but she wouldn't hurt a Puffskein. My family trusted her. She used to look after Catrin and Alun when I went to work.'

Hermione hastily interjected, 'Well it says here tha-'

Alys shook her head severely, 'I don't know what kind of rubbish you're reading, but it's not true.'

The mousy-haired woman brought a Welsh Wizarding newspaper, 'Here it tells a much different story from yours. She is a nid-pur – muggle-born – and her being a Bwytawr Marwolaeth – a Death Eater – does not make sense. I know that she is a good witch,' her trembling hand clenched the newspaper, 'She would never support the Death Eaters. Not at all.'

There was a long pause, Harry and Hermione looked at each other. His throat felt dry, Harry forced himself to drink the remaining tea left in his cup. The tea was still scalding hot.

* * *

Harry panted heavily, the walk up the hill was harder than he anticipated. Hermione complained it was like walking from Ancient Runes in Classroom 6A to Potions in the Dungeons. The view was rewarding though – he could see for miles! – green rolling hills, a flock of sheep there and there and the unfaltering blue sky. A crooked cottage with thatched roof looked welcoming to Harry and Hermione. This was Sylvia Lawrence's home.

Inside, the cottage was cosy and homely, and even though it did not resemble the Burrow, Harry felt it was just as if he was home again. ('… just don't muddle anything up, okay?' Hermione warned him).

The kitchen was more like a greenhouse with all the plant pots placed on every surface and nook and cranny. Harry saw some herbal plants growing on the windowsill, and by the teapot, he spotted a familiar plant. Was that… a Mimbulus mimbletonia? Harry instantly thought of Neville Longbottom and wondered how he was doing. In the end, after finding nothing, he had to move onto the next room.

The living room was so cramped, Harry could imagine Ron saying that there would not be enough room to swing a kneazle around. He found it difficult to move around the furniture hoarding the space, without having to walk sideways like a crab scuttling between rocks. Hermione was by the fireplace, looking through the row of books on the mantelpiece.

Harry found a familiar book, giving him nostalgia of his time at Hogwarts. It was the Herbology textbook _'One Thousand Magical Herbs and Fungi'_ he used in his First Year; he supposed Sylvia must have enjoyed Herbology. He opened the cover page and felt an intangible feeling of hollowness when he read her scrawled handwriting across the page, _'Sylvia Lawrence, 1938-1939'_. Harry quickly put the book into his bag before Hermione noticed.

The duo had thoroughly searched the ground floor and moved onto the first floor. The stairs creaked wearily, the wooden steps caving towards the middle. The cottage was old, medieval even – '…perhaps a few centuries after Hogwarts was built!' claimed Hermione to a disinterested Harry.

Sylvia's bedroom was teeming with artefacts. Harry could not take his eyes off the room; it was like time has frozen choosing to stay in the floral 1960s.

Draped around a brown armchair, he saw a tattered woolly scarf. Picking it up, he inspected it; despite the colour being long faded, it still smelt brand new. There was something off about that scarf; the way it tingled when he touched it, so he decided to hold onto it for a while.

Hermione beckoned over Harry, gesturing the direction of her attention, 'Look over there, some photos. Most of them seem to be muggle photography.'

Framed photographs, in all shapes and sizes, were placed in jumbled positions on the dressing table, and the bedside cabinet. Most were black-and-white, and the rest in retro technicolour. The earliest photograph dated back to 1931; a thin, and a rather rigid man stood next to a woman holding a toddler. In front of them stood a boy around the age of seven, and a girl about four years old. Hermione assumed it could have been her family and she was found correct when the back of the photograph said _'Tad, Mam a Rhodri, Dafydd, a minnau.'_.

* * *

Hermione sighed, 'I feel bad touching her things.'

'We got this far 'Mione, we cannot go back now. Listen, nobody knows her, she was murdered. She's not Karkaroff, so we got to find out why she was killed. Maybe she knew something about him.'

'Harry,' Hermione shook her head, 'The only thing that correlates, is the age. But, we don't know if she went to Hogwarts with You-Know-Who, or if she knew him. This was like when you were obsessed with Malfoy.'

'I was right though! He is a Death Eater!'

'Harry, not now please.' Hermione scratched the back of her neck wearily.

They went back to searching for evidence in taut silence. Harry looked through Sylvia's dressing table. On a shelf above the table, he saw a small tortoiseshell chest. As he brought it down, he blew off a layer of thick dust that coated it. It seemed the chest has not been touched in a while. Opening it, he found pieces of jewellery inside, some necklaces, earrings and two rings. Suddenly, Harry tripped backwards, his breath knocked short.

Harry frantically called out for Hermione who came rushing over. Her face was lined with confusion to why he was so panicked until she saw what was in the box.

'Galloping Gorgons! I-it's not a Horcrux is it 'Mione?'

Hermione quickly muttered a few spells to see any traces of dark magic. There was none. A thought had just occurred to Harry, his scar has not hurt once, so it cannot be an Horcrux.

He carefully picked up the delicate chain, looking at the golden locket. There was the unmistakable black stone, with the Deathly Hallows symbol engraved in it, and around it in a circle was an ouroboros – a carved serpent swallowing its tail. It looked eerily like Marvolo Gaunt's ring – the second Horcrux.

He tried to open the locket, but the hinges would not budge. A simple 'Alohomora' did not seem to work either. Harry was interrupted from his thoughts when Hermione gently took the locket from his fingers.

She spoke up, 'This looks like it's almost a copy, see the stone, and the snake?'

Harry agreed, 'He must have given it to her! This clearly shows she knows Voldemort!'

'Wait, before you jump to any concl-'

Hermione's head suddenly twisted to the window, tossing her hair, and almost knocking Harry's glasses off.

She hissed urgently, 'We have to go! Now!'

Outside the window, they saw three wizards with fluttering robes – Snatchers. Harry was acutely aware that the polyjuice potion had worn off some hours ago and his heart drummed loudly against his ribs as he heard the front door open. In an instant, he and Hermione started grabbing any important-looking things they saw lying around into their bags. Harry quickly side-apparated with Hermione back to the safety of their tent.


	3. Two

Back in the warmth of the tent, Harry watched Hermione take out object after object from her beaded moleskin pouch until there was a cluttered pile on the table.

'Wait, there's one more thing I forgot.' insisted Hermione.

Carefully taking out the locket, Hermione let the chain dangle off her fingers. It was ugly, he thought, not understanding why anyone would want to wear that. He shuddered as it reminded him of Slytherin Locket Hermione was wearing underneath her jumper.

The golden locket was placed amidst the clutter on the table. Among the pile, three items caught Harry's eye: a rusted key, a tattered green book tied closed with a yellow ribbon and a folded white fabric.

Tentatively, he took the tattered book. Despite its shabby appearance, the leather cover was still a bright shade of green, like Rita Skeeter's quill, with some fading from sun exposure. A sinking sensation swept through Harry; he suddenly saw the ghost of an image of the Basilisk fang protruding from the diary, ink spurting from its pages. The books were almost exactly alike – did she know Voldemort?

He went to sit down on the sofa, his nose crinkling in disgust by the overpowering stench of cats. The seating area reeked the most – Harry remembered fondly during the Quidditch World Cup, Ron gagging at the smell, looking like he was about to throw up slugs again. Hermione came over; he saw revulsion flicker over her face as she sat down.

'Merlin's beard! Crookshanks would never do this indoors – oh Harry! – I hope he's all right!' She exclaimed.

He recalled the half-kneazle cat with his squashed face. Crookshanks was left behind, to Hermione's guilt, after the attack at the Burrow during Bill and Fleur's wedding. He knew the Weasleys were safe since Arthur had sent his Patronus (a weasel ironically) to confirm they were well. He patted her shoulder.

'I'm sure he's okay, he's probably at the Burrow chasing the gnomes. They'll look after him.' Harry said, 'The Weasleys I mean, not the gnomes.'

After a moment of laughter, the emptiness without Ron's guffawing made them quiet again.

Untying the yellow ribbon, Harry opened the cover slowly. The book did not seem to be jinxed nor did it seem to contain any magical properties. It was a muggle object.

However, flicking through the yellow pages, his confusion felt like a Beater's bat clubbing him in the head – repeatedly. It was a photograph album, but a rubbish one he thought. Each photo was concealed by a silvery sheen to cover the real image underneath ('Jesus Christ!' proclaimed Harry causing Hermione to scold him). This deliberation to cover up the photos had made them even more intrigued.

Beneath each photo was the scrawled untidy handwriting in Welsh. Harry looked expectantly at Hermione, hoping she knew what to do.

Hermione told him, 'Her first language must have been Welsh.'

'Where else did we go yesterday? Spain?' He said exasperatedly.

She scowled, choosing to ignore him, 'Wait, I think I know how to do this.'

Harry watched her take out her wand; she pointed it to the book '_Mutatio ligua anglicus!_'

He watched the writing underneath each photo shift around, some words dissolving off the page, and new words appearing. The Welsh became English. As the shuffling words slowly came to a stop, Harry turned to her.

'Holy hippogriffs! Thanks!'

Hermione tried to reveal the photos, using all the charms she knew, but to no fruition. That put a damper on Hermione's mien, who Harry noticed, liked to do things right the first time around.

'Cheer up, I'm sure we can try other stu-'

'Oh sod off Harry.'

'Fine, have it your way then!' Harry snatched the book off her, ignoring her audible gasp and went to sit on the bench at the dining table.

He glared at the page, frustrated; the silvery sheen seemed to hover almost like a cloud or a fog. Submerged inside the mist, were shadowy figures moving around. In Dumbledore's office, he recalled seeing something similar. The same silvery substance was seen in a shallow stone basin, which old Anglo-Saxon runes and strange symbols were carved into. The same silvery substance where he learnt about Voldemort's past.

Almost… like a Pensieve!

Now, Harry realised, the next hurdle he had to overcome was how to enter the photographs. He was not sure whether he should stick his head in, like how he always did when entering the Pensieve. The thought of asking Hermione's help was quashed by the fact she was reclining on the armchair, sullen while reading a hefty book.

Rubbing his face, he exhaled. Harry never felt more drained than he did now, the hunt for the Horcrux all led to dead ends, and there was the additional challenge of the stupid diary. Most of all, he simply missed Ron.

Despite doing many idiotic things, Ron was still his best mate. He remembered them both getting in trouble numerous times in Transfiguration for not focusing.

Then there were the ridiculous Divination predictions they'd both come up with ('Aaaaah,' said Ron, imitating Professor Trelawney's mystical whisper, 'when two Neptunes appear in the sky, it is a sure sign that a midget in glasses is being born, Harry …').

'What are you laughing about?'

Interrupted from his thoughts, Harry saw Hermione curiously gazing at him from the armchair. He realised the soreness of his cheeks from smiling.

'I'm a naturally happy person. I love to smile every day.' Harry replied; deadpanned.

Hermione made a strange face, before putting down the paperback with a light thud. Harry eyed her as she got up and walked towards the bench, sitting opposite him. They both looked at each other, not really wanting to be the first one to apologise. He realised he had not noticed her wearing an unusually large stripy jumper.

'What are you wearing?' he asked.

Hermione looked down at the oversized jumper, twirling the loose string from the hem. She reddened, 'It's Ron's.'

'You mean you stole it?!'

'Don't be daft Harry, he left it here.'

'Hermione,' Harry said, 'Has anyone told you that you're an awful liar?'

Hermione protested indignantly; she changed the topic of the conversation suddenly, 'Right… I'm going to cook soup, is chicken fine?'

Harry nodded; besides, chicken soup was all they had left.

* * *

It was almost eleven in the evening by the time they finished their soup. Harry explained about his recent discovery, to which Hermione had to stifle her laughter.

'You've been sticking your head in the Pensieve the whole time? That's not how you do it.'

'So?' Harry argued, 'Dumbledore didn't say anything.'

'Most likely because he was laughing at you! You're supposed to use your wand, but then fingers work too, I suppose...'

Harry gave Hermione a dirty look, before continuing snarkily, 'Well? How do you get in?'

'Were you not listening? I clearly said your wand or your fingers.'

'What? No!' he spluttered, 'I meant the diary.'

'Oh right. Erm,' Hermione fidgeted uncomfortably, 'I don't know what spell she used – but – I think I know something that might actually work this time.'

Hermione brought out her wand, 'Harry, hold on to my arm. Good, now, ready?' She pointed it at a random photo '_Intrabitus!_'

* * *

(-)

* * *

It must have been autumn, for the trees were painted with brilliant shades of orange and red, and the smell of damp earth clung onto the air. The shriek of a child's laughter startled a few birds, and the trees shook with fright as the birds took flight.

Two children were sitting underneath a wizened oak tree: a young girl, about ten-years-old and her brother about eight-years-old. They both looked almost alike; curly ginger hair, and grey eyes – not glittering maliciously like Draco's, but quiet, almost solemn, like cloudy skies.

Rhodri gazed at the sky, watching the birds circle around.

'Os gwelwch yn dda, nid wyf am fynd yn ôl yno yfory. _Please, I don't want to go back there tomorrow._' He spoke quietly. 'Rwyf am aros yma am byth. _I want to stay here forever_.

'_Dafydd won't help, and you're the only one who understands_.' Rhodri blinked away the tears, '_Can we run away, to somewhere far away? Just you and me._'

Sylvia brought Rhodri to her arms, trying to swallow the lump forming in her throat. The wind blew, and a torrent of leaves shot into the air, sailing around them, waltzing to-and-fro, like dancers in a ballroom.

'_One day, I promise._'

* * *

(-)

* * *

Harry breathed in deeply; although there was a pang of sadness in him, he was slightly perplexed – what was the place Rhodri did not want to go back to – and why? Despite that, he felt connected to the little boy. It seemed like only yesterday Sirius has asked Harry to live with him, and he would have jumped at the chance to leave the Dursley's for once and for all. But of course, it never happened. The little boy's tearful face replayed in his mind; he hoped Sylvia's promise had been fulfilled.

Hermione skimmed through the pages with a quizzical expression, before she suddenly announced, 'There are no more photos of Rhodri after 1940.' she swallowed, 'Something must have happened…'

Just like she said, there was only a few more photo of Rhodri, and after that, it was like he vanished without a trace.

Harry looked at her knowingly.

His fingers traced the edges of the photograph, as he read the inscription below '_Rhodri Llawryf – 1940_'. A lot of things did not add up, making him frustrated. The non-chronological order of the photos made him more confused, and it was like how Harry felt during Professor Binn's rambling lecture of the Goblin Rebellion – whatever that was. This time, he thought, sorting each memory into order might shed more clarity into Sylvia's shadowy past.

''Mione, let's restart from the beginning and go through each memory one by one. No jumping around.'

Hermione blinked. She cleared her throat, 'Right, okay. Let's do that then.'

Flicking the pages to the very first page, they both looked at each other warily. With a nod, Hermione recited a spell. Harry felt him being pulled into the book, and with that, Sylvia's memories started to play out in front of their eyes.


End file.
